Red and Gold
by ilovecherries123
Summary: Probably will be PG-13 later on-All Clara ever wanted was to make her passion a reality, and to be loved for herself, and only for herself. (Davidfic) PLEASE rr!
1. Getting Out

When Clara Foster was a child, she had grown up in a healthy, inviting lifestyle. Her family gave to the poor, went to the theatre, and provided the best education they could afford for their child. They weren't wealthy, but they were happy.

Clara's mother, albeit a lovely woman at the time, stood in the background as a mother to Clara-her place was to cook, clean and keep the household running-that was how she liked it. Never truly connecting with her daughter, she let her husband dote on, and teach Clara. Clara didn't mind-her father was there, and that was all a five-year old really needed.

However, one could imagine Marjorie Foster's discontentment when her daughter, then seven (And already showing signs of oncoming attractiveness) announced she wanted to learn to dance and sing, for one day, she told her parents, she was going to be an actress, after seeing a show that some cobblers had put on in the street for a spare penny or two. But, like always, she slipped into the background while Clara learned quickly. After all, what made Clara happy made Mr. Foster happy, which, in turn, made Mrs. Foster happy.

Three years later, when Clara was ten, and had grown to have an outgoing, modest and intelligent composure, she was on top of the moon about all things dramatic. In the nights she would wake her parents with the playing of the piano, the re-enactment of Julius Caesar's death- entertaining at times, though trivial to her mother.

"My Clara" her father would say with pride, "One day, when I'm an old man, you're going to give me front-row tickets to every show, and I'll tell everyone sitting around me, 'that's my daughter up there. Isn't she marvelous' and I'll just burst with pride right there. Isn't that's right, dear"? Mrs. Foster looked up from her sewing and nodded. Her father's encouragement made Clara work even harder, and though at times a bit overzealous and passionate, Clara had a good heart, and was especially a favorite among the boys her age at her school. After receiving a handful of dandelions one day from an 11-year old busboy, she turned to her father confused. "Why is it", Clara asked as she picked away at the chipping table, "That boys do that? I don't understand, I'm just Clara". "Wrong. You're NOT just Clara. You're turning into an intelligent, and, though I hate to admit it, beautiful young woman-people are going to notice that. But Clara, " Her father continued, "That boy didn't know YOU. He knew how you looked, but he didn't know YOU. Promise e you'll choose a man who loves you- a respectful, good hearted man you know YOU, and loves you for it". Though the topic of boys was still a bit sticky for a ten-year old, Clara took it to heart and remembered her father's words. She didn't except flowers from any boy who didn't measure up to what her father had told her.

A month later. Clara awoke from a restless sleep to the sound of sirens and her mother sobbing. She ran into the dining room to see what in heaven's name was the matter. Lying on the table next to her shaking mother was the newspaper. ON the front page the headline sprawled across it read: MAJOR CRASH: ACCIDENT OR MURDER? Next to a picture of a smoky automobile collision were the names of the deceased; 23 in all. 7th on the list was what Clara feared the most-

7. Benjamin Foster

With a gasp of horror Clara looked to her mother for some kind of assurance- but none was there. Gasping for breath, Clara started shaking uncontrollably. She sprinted down the hall and threw open the door to her parent's bedroom, hoping beyond hope that papa would be there-but he was gone. Forever. He would never be in that bed again. Having never experienced the reality of death before, all young Clara could do was fall to her knees and sob. Sob for her father, and for the lives he left behind that would never be the same again.

Clara and her mother both dealt with the death in totally different, and totally separate ways. Marjorie Foster took to ignoring; keeping busy constantly and pretending like no body else had ever lived there other than herself and this young girl. Clara on the other hand, after time delved into using her father's death as a motivation to only become better at what he and herself had loved-music and acting. She stored her emotions that unleashed whenever she remembered that awful day inside herself, ready to come out whenever she asked them to. Writing lyrics helped her get her thoughts, rants, and pre-teenage angst out without mothering her mother. She promised herself, after 3 months of random fits and sobbing, that she would do as her father would have wanted-keep her chin up and never stop believing. However, her and her mother never discussed it-one day Clara was at the piano when she was about 12-singing and playing a song that she had written about him-when she looked dup and saw her mother in the doorway, staring off into space.

"Mother", she asked timidly, "Do-do you think…he's happy where he is? Without us I mean?" Her mother looked up sharply and sighed. "Get back to your schoolwork, Clara- we don't want you to fall behind." And left the room. In frustration, and a cry for the attention that her mother never gave her, she picked up a glass figurine and flung it across the room, where it shattered against the wall. Waiting for a scream or the sound of footsteps, she stayed perfectly still. But it never came. Sighing in resignation, Clara grabbed a broom and cleaned up all the pieces. She knew that her mother and herself would never talk about it-Clara was on her own, but would never understand her mother, try as she might, and her mother would never understand her. Mr. Foster had been a bridge that connected the two-but now that bridge was broken, and it wasn't going to be rebuilt.

Two months later Mrs. Foster married a man Clara had never met in her life-Christopher.

5 YEARS LATER

Seventeen-year-old Clara slammed her door for the umpteenth time that month. "For the love of God…" She murmured under her breath. Clara didn't dare yell, for she didn't need any more scars to remind her to obey him-Christopher's word was the law, and if you didn't follow his instructions, you were punished. Fighting away the burning tears coming to her eyes, she recalled this fight as being one the worst yet….

_Christopher's whiskery, angry face filled Clara's vision as he picked her beloved music book-the book of all her compositions-and dropped it to the ground like a piece of discarded trash. "You THINK you can just sit here all you like, not doing a scrap of work around here, with your books of useless garbage and just STARE out the window like that?" Clara could tell her was half drunk by the way he slurred his words-the fact that she had spent the whole day scrubbing the kitchen floor unnoticed was nothing unusual. But this time his rage was different. He knocked her to the floor, catching her by surprise. Clara's radar went on full alert as he fell on top of her, placing sloppy kisses all over her face. "No…" C lara thought as her whole body tensed up. "Not here…not this way…NO!" With trained strength, she pushed Christopher off of her. It was easier considering he was half passed out by now. Standing up, she rushed to her room…_

Clara sat down on her bed. This was getting to be a fairly regular occurrence- of course tonight had been the worst, but this was not the first time he had come home drunk and ranting…Clara never had gotten a full story on why her mother had married the pig. He could provide for the family, her mother knew him well…always half-formed answers.

Clara smiled as she picked up her favorite book of the month, "Great Expectations". She'd bought it at a local sale with her extra change. Despite the fact she almost never got money from her mother or Christopher, Clara had one of many secrets she hid from them. It just so happened that every other Saturday Clara would go down tot he local tavern and play the piano, sing and lead group dances with all the customers. She'd become quite good friends with the local artists-well, whatever "artist" was in the suburbs of Seattle, 1901. Anyway, throughout the last year she'd accumulated enough money to buy the occasional treat for herself, and have some to save for the future. Also, it was nice to know that since Chris had no idea about the money, he couldn't take it away.

Thinking of the secret, her mind drifted to what she would use it for one day. One day-there was always going to be that day in the future, but would that day ever really come? Of course she had ideas but...why not? Alert now, she looked up to a photograph on her wall. Central Park. A boulevard filled with theatres- a place of dreams, where limits were nonexistent. Of course, Clara knew all this couldn't be as wonderful as it seemed, but photos don't lie…

Hearing Chris drag his feet to the bedroom, Clara made a split-second decision. This was it. For the last seven years she'd dreamed of this, but never really considered it-run away? To New York? What kind of an idiot was she? Her, with almost no professional experience, no contacts, no friends, her, in the biggest city in the country? But….no. "Don't think, just pack, " she told herself. In a tweed bag, Clara threw in a few dresses, suspenders, and other basic clothes, a picture of her father, mother and herself in happier times, a few books, and other essentials, being careful to pack lightly Last of all, she dug her fingernails underneath a loose floorboard and took out a bag of coins. She knew there was enough. Taking out a piece of paper, she jotted down:

_Dear Mother,_

_You may care, you may not, but if you're reading this, it means that I'm gone. I do wish that things could have been different in our relationship, but you and I both know that after Father died, we had already gone our separate ways, in a way. I do love you, but I can't stay here. I'm sure Chris can tell you why._

_Your daughter, Clara_

Taking one last look around the room she'd cried so many times before, she headed out. On a second thought, she grabbed the stuffed dog sitting on her bed-some things you just can't leave behind. Tip toeing as quietly as she could, she slipped out her bedroom door and down the hall. Waking someone up meant certain pain. IN the living room she saw her composition book on the ground-5 years of work. Picking it up and slipping it into her bag, she chastised herself-her bag couldn't be too heavy, but this was important to her. About 3 yards to the door she heard a creak behind her and her heart literally jumped out of her chest. Terrified, she turned-nothing. Why was this so hard for her? Because, like a dog, she'd been trained to stay in her boundaries-leaving was never an option. But, wish sheer determination, the seventeen year old turned the door know and stepped out into the cold, dark night.

That's' when she heard it. "What the hell do you think you're-" the second she heard that voice, Clara broke into a mad run. Right behind her was the now sober, but even more furious Christopher. It was a 30-minute walk to the train station-if there wasn't a train leaving soon she was done for, and she knew it. Sprinting down allies, trying to lose Chris, Clara was halfway there in ten minutes. Once she thought she'd lost him, she heard voices. "Officer," Christopher was saying, "my disturbed daughter ran away earlier tonight. Light Brown hair, about 5'6, slim. She is not to be trusted alone, and if you see her, please keep her." He went off looking again. "Great," thought Clara. "Now I have the police after me too. What a wonderful night this is turning out to be…"

Going back down the alley, she figured her best shot was just to run as fast as she could to the train station…it was just a half a mile away now. Leaping out of the alleyway, Clara sprinted the route to the train station. She got some looks from shady characters in the streets, but by the time she saw the entrance, she was safe. Nearly out of breath, and cursing herself for bringing one too many books, she asked the woman in the ticket booth, "When is the next train to New York?" "Well, darling, there's one leavin' in 5 minutes, but I doubt you'll want to-" "I'll take it," Clara replied without hesitation. "Alright, Alright, 1rst class, sec"- "Third, please, " she answered bluntly. The price rang up more than she bargained for, but she paid the woman quickly and started a dash to gate B-24. 3 minutes to go…then the worst. She spotted Christopher, and he had spotted her as well. Clara ran to the train just as it had blown its horn. Hopping on, the train started to move.

Chris just stopped and stared dumbly at Clara, who was leaning out the window with a look of triumph on her face. She shouted what she thought to be the last thing she would ever say to him, "I hope you have fun finding your way home, Chris! They just locked the gate behind you! Don't you know you're not allowed here without a ticket? Have a good life! Bye now!" With a smirk and a wiggle of her fingers, Clara sank back into the hardwood bench, exhausted. Before she drifted off to sleep, "New York," Clara thought, "I sure hope you're ready".


	2. New jobs and Friends

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Newsies, got it?

CHAPTER 2

After 3 days on a hot train (in 3rd class) Clara was more than ready to board off when they reached New York. While she had been on the train, Clara had developed a bad case of lice-probably from her board partner, who looked like she hadn't bathed in days-not that it was her fault or anything, but along with never speaking, she seemed to have borrowed Clara's brush more than one times.

Stepping off the stairs, and carrying her bag, Clara figured she should make herself halfway acceptable, so she went to a window, and checked her reflection. Eh. Not surprising, Light brown, curly hair, and a normally freckled but right now pale complexion from lack of sleep. Stepping out into the sunlight, Clara breathed in deeply. _She was here._ Clara started walking briskly and confidently, trying to look like she was very accustomed to the ways of this city, without really achieving it, seeing as her eyes were as big as saucers, looking around at all the buildings and things going on. What to do first? The basics. Lunch being a basic. It was just amazing to be walking around free, with no one around to take her back, no ghost of the past following her. Stopping at a hot sandwich stand, Clara dug into her pocket. Not much money left-she'd have to be careful. Buying only half a sandwich, she walked toward an apartment building that looked like she might be able to afford for a month or-CRASH!

Clara was on the ground. Lying in a puddle. Staring at the sky. "I should have figured," she murmured, feeling the cold water from last night's shower seep into her clothing. Shaking her itchy head, she opened in front of her eyes. Lying across from her in another puddle was another boy who looked to be around her age with curly chestnut locks and a shy face. He was actually quite good looking, she noticed…until he opened his mouth, that is.

"My papers!" He cried, looking around and gathering up his sopping wet papers quickly, keeping them from getting soaked. His papers? Where Clara came from, if a young man knocked a young lady into a puddle, he normally helped her up before worrying about his papers. After All, he had about 20, surely he could read the other 19 or so, so why ever he would have that many anyways, Clara had no idea. Deciding to stay silent and see what happened, Clara sat there in the puddle and continued to look up at him with a blank expression on her face, with her arms crossed. After he had stood up and everything AND gathered up his papers, AND brushed himself off, he looked down onto the sidewalk. There was Clara. He did a double take.

"Did…did I push you in there, maa'm?" He asked. "Clara unfolded her arms and simply replied "Well, considering you couldn't have fallen to the ground by plain gravity, or an invisible force feild, yes, I do believe you did," she sad, raising an eyebrow. "Why do you have this many newspapers anyways? Its' not like you're going to fall into 20 puddles along the way". Clara knew she was being a little rude, but she was tired, the sun was hot, she was wet and cold, and her head ITCHED. Normally she would have stopped and written down some lyrics or something to get her frustration out, but seeing as that was probably soaked as well, she figured it wasn't worth it at the time. The boy extended an arm out to her, which she accepted and pulled herself up, shaking out her hair.

"I'm a Newsie," he replied, without further explanation. Clara, realizing that she was being a little over-dramatic for her own good, and considering this was the first person she'd met in New York, figured she should act a little more humble. " Don't worry, its' not your fault. We all make mistakes," she said, smiling at the boy. He seemed to be unlike the other newsboys she'd seen on her way less rugged, and definitely more honest. " Are your papers alright?" Clara inquired, "I hope I havn't ruined any chances on a good sale for you." "No, its' fine….is that your sandwich in the puddle there?" He asked. "Oh, I- Oh, drat, it is! Ah well" Clara shrugged. _There goes my lunch._

Scratching at her head, Clara picked up another newspaper he had forgotten, lying facedown in the puddle. On the front, with the table of contents was a section for auditions. Clara gasped. "How much is a paper?" she asked. 'Oh, ma'am, you don't need to buy a paper, they'll dry." He replied. "No, no, I do need one actually. I insist. Now we're even. How much?" "Penny a pape, ma'am," the newsboy replied, tipping his newsboy cape and brushing off his vest. Clara laughed. "Obviously you've been doing this for some time," she reflected. "Only about a year. My family hit some hard times, and I'm helping out for the time being. But I'll be back in school soon." He added with a hint of defensiveness in his voice. Clara considered telling him about how she came to be where she was now, but decided against it, figuring that it wasn't wise to let it get around, in case Christopher somehow got a hold of her." Well, I wish you the best of luck. You're doing a fine job," Clara said as she handed him two pennies. "Two papers, miss?" "Yes, please. I…have a friend who needs one as well." Getting her papers, she walked across the street to a bench, handing the extra paper to a man sitting on the curb.

Sitting down on the bench, Clara quickly flipped to section D- Arts and Entertainment. She noticed that there were newsboys on every corner. Passing through, she'd been tempted to buy a paper from a boy looking to be about eight-she was glad now that she hadn't. "Mayor suffers serious stroke-greatly effects stock market!" Someone shouted. Looking up, Clara saw that it was the boy she'd knocked into earlier. He didn't seem extremely enthusiastic at shouting at numerous people, and his angle could use some work. Other than that, he seemed to doing fine, considering the state of his papers, and he seemed to genuinely care about the job he was doing. Confused, Clara looked through the pages of her paper. In the business section there was a little article about how the mayor's stroke last month turned out to be a minor allergic reaction to turnips.

Shaking her head, Clara returned to the auditions section. The first few ones Clara obviously had to intention of being involved in-somehow, "Girls Live" didn't seem like something she was looking for. Scanning down the page, something caught her eye.

"Dust in the Stars"-A new musical for the new century. Most spots filled, still seeking a few chorus members, and supporting roles. Must sing, dancing a plus. Please bring two contrasting pieces, monologue and 15 bars of a song. Auditions Sunday, May 16th. Medda's Showbox at-

Clara looked up. The smell of those sandwiches must have drifted or something, it smelled very strong and was driving her grumbling stomach crazy. Looking around, she saw the newsie boy walking across the street, going back o his spot on the sidewalk. Beside her was a half of a sandwich from the stand she had bought her first one from. Laughing, Clara called out, "Wait!" to the boy. He turned. "Thanks," she replied simply. He blushed and shrugged. "Now we're even," replied the newsie. "What's your name?" Clara asked. Turning again he replied, "David." She was about to yell out her name, but the ad she had been reading caught her eye again. The end of it, the time of the audition read 3:00. Whipping her head back to read the clock on the shop behind her, she saw that the time read 2:30. _Sweet Lord._ Grabbing her sandwich, Clara broke into a fast sprint for what seemed like the 5th time this week. Passing David, she skidded to a halt. "Where is Meddas!?" She asked frantically, thinking to herself, _you rude girl. The boy gave you lunch-oh god, 25 minutes left! _ The boy pointed down the avenue. "Take a left, then a right. Its' about a block down from the newsboys lodging house." He looked like he was about to say something else, but Clara, completely forgetting to say even a thank you, jogged off in search of Medda's.

After about 20 minutes, Clara arrived at a vaudeville type theatre, 5 minutes early. Fixing her hair, trying not to scratch, she walked in, trying to appear confident, and like she knew exactly what she was doing. Walking up to a desk in the lobby, Clara said, "Um. Yes, I'd like to audition for Dust in the Stars please. If you have room." The old man behind the counter told her to wait in the theatre, and to have all her audition materials ready to go.

Walking into the theatre, Clara gasped. She'd never been in a theatre before, and immediately knew that she'd made the right decision in coming here. This is where she belonged. Digging into her bag that she'd been carrying around with her all day, Clara took out a ballad she'd been singing and working on for about 3 years. After around 20 minutes of waiting and nervous toe tapping, they finally called "Next"-it was her turn.

Clara attempted to look like she knew what she was doing, and walked onto the stage, begging her fingers to not scratch at her head and stay still. Sitting at a makeshift table in front of her, were three adults, two men, one younger, and another older, richer one, who was probably the investor, and lastly, a classy-looking redhead. Clara assumed this was Medda. "Hello, my name is Clara Foster," she began. "And for my comedic monologue I'll be performing " I intend to be Queen". Taking a deep breath, Clara launched into a talky, voice and upright composure "Do you know what I intend?" She asked, in a hushed voice, staring off into space. " I intend to be…a QUEEN! I'm going to be the best queen there ever was…" and on it went for another two minutes. Halfway through she heard the redhead lady giggle-good. Ending her monologue, Clara bowed her head and murmured, "Thank you," to signify that she was finished. She hoped this was how things worked; she'd only read about the audition process in an article once. The three sitting at the table took notes for about 30 seconds or so, when the younger man (the director) glanced up impatiently and said, "You do have a song, correct? We need to hear it for the audition to be over." "Right," Clara replied. She'd thought they were supposed to take notes or something like that. But no matter. She handed her music to the pianist sitting in the corner of the stage and took center. The solemn melody drifted around the room, and Clara opened her mouth and began to sing. The song was one she'd found in her basement about two years ago, about loving and the irony of it all. Although she'd never been in love, she found the lyrics very touching, and easy to relate to. Not to mention, the melody was amazing.

Despite a chilly draft in the room due to an open door, Clara took a deep breath and began to sing. Her high soprano voice sounded good enough to her, and went into her character that the song called for. After the last high note, Clara bowed and was finished.

"Thank you, if you could sit down for awhile, we'd like to have a short conference, honey," The redhead told her. Clara breathed a sigh of relief and went to the back of the theatre, and sat down. After awhile she noticed that someone was behind her. She turned and saw an elderly woman- not truly "elderly," once she thought about it-old, but new, in a way. The woman smiled. "You've got quite a talent, young missy. How old did you say you were"? "I didn't," Clara replied, "But I'm seventeen. What's' your name, ma'am?" "Oh, I'll have none of that "ma'am" business- now you know, I was an actress in my time as well, and let me tell you"- but she was cut off the director calling Clara back on the stage. Medal turned around and gasped. "Marie! Oh, Marie, its' been so long! How long have you been here?" She rushed up and gave the woman a gentle hug. "Ahem." The director, who was obviously not the nicest person in New York interrupted. Motioning to the stage, he reminded her, "The audition, Medda." Medda smiled and took her seat, motioning for Marie to stay where she was. Clara walked up onto the stage, and Marie smiled at her and winked. "So now, honey, we've decided that you would be wonderful either in chorus or in a small-soloist part- a few lines here and there, depending on your range, we're thinking we could spice it up a bit". It took all of Clara's strength not to jump right down and hug Medda right there, but stayed where she was. "So, we're going to need your address and credentials s we know how to contact you with the rehearsal schedules and such. Normally we would have a callback session, but seeing as the show must open in four months time, there really isn't any time to waste. So just write everything down here."

Clara took a pen and wrote down her name. Second on the contract was address. Oh no. "Um, excuse me? I'm sorry, I…I don't have an address. I just got here not three hours ago, and…" "You mean you have nowhere to be contacted?" the director asked incredously. "Well, then, that's a problem. We can't"-

"She lives with me," A voice from the audience said. Clara looked up and saw that the elderly woman was walking up to the stage. "She lives with me, "she repeated with a smile that had obviously been practiced many times before. "Oh, thank God," the investor spoke for the first time. "Have you been training her, Marie?" asked Medda, "Good on you! "She really does have a spark about her, doesn't she?" Clara was about to protest to what was happening, but Marie gave her a look that told her to just go with what was going on. After signing her first contract that basically entitled compensation and that she would be at all rehearsals, Clara and Marie left together.

Once they were outside, Marie spoke before Clara could. "Now, seeing as you are otherwise homeless, I see no reason why you can't lodge with me for the time being. You seen able-bodied and polite enough, and I feel you would be a truly lovely person to be with for a while. Considering you help me around the house, of course." Clara nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed, considering she was on a train not six hours ago, and she already had a job and a place to stay. It was like the fates were all working for her or something. Sure, she didn't know this woman very well, and sure she had no idea what would happen next, but that was the beauty of life wasn't it? The reason she left; to make her own decisions and.well, be FREE. Clara smiled at Marie and held her hand out to shake. "I concur, Miss. Marie. I think we'll have a lovely time," she said in a mock-British accent. Marie laughed. "Oh, dear, you remind me more of myself every second. Lets' go."

On the way to Marie's apartment building, they passed the Newsie boy-David, was it?- that Marie had met earlier. Before she could say anything to Marie about him, she noticed that Marie was waving him over. On his way over, David stopped and looked confused, but kept walking towards them. "Marie, I"- Clara began, glad to see him again, but confused as to how Marie seemed to know him. "Clara," Marie said, and she presented the boy, "I would like for you to met David, my grandson."


End file.
